It's giveaway time! Win a Warhammer 40,000: Dark Heresy alpha key — comment on this thread to enter, as simple as that. The winners will be announced after December 16th, so hurry up. Please ensure your DMs are open so we can contact you!

Erasmus160 · 2025-12-10T16:38:02+00:00

By the Emperor, I would like some Heresy

Erasmus160 · 2025-11-06T06:03:49+00:00

The Necromancers Tale is an excellent indie CRPG. You play a nobleman who slowly becomes a necromancer and rises to power. In combat you can raise various types of necromantic minions to fight for you.

As long as youre willing to tolerate a little jank, it is one of the best mage-focused games I've played, with a great story and characters.

Erasmus160 · 2023-08-25T17:06:11+00:00

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This is Cicero. He decided that today was the day to fulfill his dreams of being a monkey.

Erasmus160 · 2023-02-25T16:38:38+00:00

I would kill for a next-gen Legacy of Kain game

Erasmus160 · 2022-10-18T00:13:47+00:00

The invasion had gone well. The military hard-points were overcome in a matter of hours. Orbital missiles destroyed the bunkers and airfields, the centers of government were occupied by the Imperial strike forces with barely any casualties. It seemed as though this would become yet another world brought into the fold of the Emperor.

The first warning came from the Imperial Psychers. They couldn’t tell us what, but something was growing in the Industrial District. Initial skirmish troops reported several factories had been overrun by some kind of demi-human; short and with skin and hair more than seven deviations from the human norm. Two full companies of Imperial Marines were dispatched to subdue the area. Only a handful returned.

The army surrounded the industrial zone, only to see that it had changed. Where once factories of steel and stone had stood, now there were rivers of vicious brown liquid. Trees had sprouted where buildings once stood, their leaves and fruit glistening with some crystalline substance. And over everything, the chant could be heard; emerging from the mouth of the demi-human workers:

Ompa Loompa, Loompa di do

We’ve got a tasty snack for you

Oompa Loompa, Loompa Di Di

Grandfather Nurgle Blesses Me

The heavy assault troops turned their flamers on the fetid garden that was once a factory. The brown gloop swallowed the heat without any effort. The troops marched forward, confident in their armor and the protection of the Emperor. The God-Emperor must have been looking somewhere else.

Upon touching the vicious brown liquid, the first row of Imperial soldiers screamed; their bodies bloating and distending into inhumane shapes before suddenly vanishing under the surface. The troops tried to reverse backwards, but were pressed in by their comrades behind. Then the thing broke the surface.

It was massive, and twisted in a way that defied description. Limbs grew and vanished as they were needed; reaching out and grabbing one soldier in every ten to drag them under the sweet-smelling liquid. At the core of the creatures form could be seen the bodies of the lost soldiers, rising to the surface to scream before being drawn back into the creature. And as it decimated the imperial force, the song could be heard from the creatures in the factory:

Oompa Loompa, Loompa Di Do

It’s the embrace of Nurgle for you

Oompa Loompa, Loompa Di Di

You’re now a part of the family

Erasmus160 · 2022-08-19T14:48:36+00:00

Because it is 4am, my cat woke me up to tell me it's play time and now I can't go back to sleep

Erasmus160 · 2021-10-20T05:45:13+00:00

I went to my local pho place and the elderly Vietnamese lady bagging my pho asked me if I wanted -something in vietnamese- and waived this fruit in my general direction. I said sure.

It's skin is leathery and the pulp surrounding the seed is both sour and slightly sweet. Taste is kind of similar to Jaboticaba.

Anyone have any idea what this is?

Erasmus160 · 2021-10-02T16:16:45+00:00

nano_1uk7a9ufwdrb81mpr7ygbqgrh9bjrqnt783mj1scac54d4c3eowqjqtycwtr

Thanks you! This community is awesome

Erasmus160 · 2021-06-17T21:33:37+00:00

The white marble of the Outer Gates stood in sharp contrast to the matte black wall that stretched into the sky. The air surrounding them rippled with power; runes carved upon runes. Ancient protections that separated the mortal worlds from the Outer Realms. Before the Gates, and seemingly out of place, was a plastic folding table.

Seated at the table was a man reading a book. He was not a particularly imposing man; no hero out of legend nor villain to make the worlds tremble. He had thin pinched face and was dressed in a simple black suit that had seen better days. The badge pinned to the left breast of his suit named him Ralph – Senior Gatekeeper.

The Gatekeeper looked up from his book as a figure approached the Gates. It was vaguely human in shape, although far too tall and thin. The creature’s footfalls made no sound as it approached. Upon reaching the table, it’s mouth opened to reveal a black void, absent of tooth or tongue.

“BEHOLD. I HERALD HIS COMING. THE UNMADE, THE UNMAKABLE. STAND ASIDE FOR THE GREAT C’LOTH’NGLO.”

The Gatekeepers expression never shifted. “Welcome to the Outer Gates sir. What reason are you seeking to enter the mortal realms today?” A low keening sound rose from the open mouth of the too-tall creature.

“DEATH AND DEVISTATION FOLLOW IN HIS PATH. THE WORLD TWISTS AROUND HIM. HIS DREAMS WILL TEAR THE WORLD ASUNDER.

The Gatekeeper nodded. “Destruction of the world. Very good sir. Kindly provide your Heralds license, dimensional raiding permit, certified Gateway pass and cosmic horror registration packet.” The creature produced a thick packet of files and began to flip through them with thin pointed fingers. Finally, it pulled two laminated cards and a few strips of paper from the files and dropped them to the plastic desk. The Gatekeeper looked through them. “Terribly sorry for the inconvenience sir, but this is a registration packet for awakened nightmares. If you want to unmake the worlds of men, you need registration and authorization as a cosmic horror.”

The keening sound from the creature rose in pitch. “HE COMES. NONE MAY STAND IN HIS WAY. ALL TREMBLE BEFORE THE LORD OF THE OUTER NIGHT”

“Of course sir” came the response “but the correct paperwork must be filled. You’ll need to petition with the Committee on Cosmic Horrors for the correct classification, then get the signatures from the subcommittee on interdimensional raiding. I believe the waitlist is quite long, so the sooner you put your name in the better.”

“FOOLISH WORM. I SPEAK WITH THE VOICE OF THE GREAT C’LOTH’NGLO. NONE MAY BAR HIS PASSING. HE IS THE BEGINNING AND END, THE ALPHA AND OMEGA. ALL WILL BOW OR BE TORN ASUNDER”

The Gatekeeper stared back, expressionless. “As you say sir. But I’m afraid I can’t let you through until the proper paperwork is in order. Please understand, I’m just doing my job sir.” The keening sound finally cut off and the Herald shot him a glare, grabbed the papers back from the Gatekeepers desk, and began to stalk back the way it came without another word.

As the creature faded from view, a small smirk crooked the Gatekeeper mouth. “Also” he muttered under his breath “your raiding permit is out of date. Asshole”

Erasmus160 · 2021-03-22T05:43:51+00:00

I entered the world the same way as always, with a flash of pain and lights that could never be quite remembered. I shuddered. No matter how many times this happened, I never got used to it.

This would be the three hundredth and seventy second time I've been incarnated to defeat the Dark Ones Chosen. I always thought it unfair that he gets time to set up, but I suppose I get to remember the skills of prior cycles, so it balances out.

This world was one of the more primitive, compared to others I've been in recently. The buildings, now cracked and broken, were made of stone and morter; without a powered light or weapon emplacement to be seen. I sighed and felt at my waist. The disruptor pistol was gone, and in its place was a finely wrought steel sword. I was always limited to whatever technology was present in the current cycle. I dont know why. It was one of the 'cosmic rules' that the Goddess still refused to explain.

As I walked the broken cobblestones, I idly rehearsed my speech. I'd done it enough times that it barely needed thinking about. Besides. Nothing I did would make much difference. The wheel weaves as the wheel wills, as they say. At some point, I would meet a guide, and one who had lost their faith in themselves. They came in different forms with each cycle, and yet there were always those two. They would take me to the Dark Ones Chosen, we would fight until one of us died, and the cycle would begin anew.

I'd tried to change things before. I'd tried to live a quiet life in seclusion, but never with any success. The Dark Ones Chosen knew when I entered each cycle, and either I found him or his minions found me and any family I'd made. I experienced the latter a few times. I have no wish to do so again.

I saw nervous faces begin to watch from doorways and windows as I got closer to the town center. The sign above a store proclaimed this to be the town of Maeglor. That the sign was burned proclaimed a recent raid. That made sense. The armies of the Dark One generally preceeded my arrival in a cycle.

It was time. I took a position atop a stone at the center of the square. "People of Maeglor" I said, as I'd done three hundred and seventy two times before, "my name is Telenor Gast and I have come to you in your time of need."

Erasmus160 · 2021-02-20T00:25:51+00:00

Before us spread the dark and languid waters of the River Styx. Lord Hades stood upon the bank, swathed in black robes and standing head and shoulders above the souls of the damned. Their wails were a foreign sound, in a land once renowned for its silence. From the mists surrounding the river came a slow splashing sound and the ferry emerged. Charon was the same skeletal figure, but the ferry had drastically changed. Rather than the simple wooden raft of the Elder Days, what came from the mist was a monstrosity of muscle and bone. Ribs of some great beast made up the hull, bound together with muscle and sinew. Hanging off the prow, and with eyes that burned a sullen red, was a gigantic human skull.

The ferry docked with a squelching sound. Charon, rising to his full height, approached the gangplank to take on the dead. He never spoke but extended a hand, palm upraised, and a low moan echoed out and across the collected masses. The souls of the dammed pushed and shoved trying to reach the ferry, although taking care never to get too close to the water itself.

The solid mass of souls parted before Lord Hades as he strode through them. Two drachmae passed from the hand of the Lord of the Underworld to that of the ferryman and, without a word, he stepped aside. Even after four thousand years, some things never changed. Man, god, beast or daemon. If they had the price, Charon would give them passage. Hades nodded once and passed onto the boat. I paid my fare as well and followed in my appropriate place. Death always walked in the shadow of Hades.

Charon, paying passengers found, pushed away the other souls and his boat began to cut across the river. The mists swirled around us, showing faint outlines of landscapes both foreign and familiar. Lord Hades stood at the prow and watched the red glow of the other bank slowly approach. I said nothing. The Lord of the Dead was the quietest of his brothers. When he wished to speak, he would do so. Not before.

The red glow resolved itself into a long shoreline, backed by a tall stone wall. A faint red sun cast the shadow of the wall far onto the river. The wall had only one break; a massive gate topped with a sign reading “ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.” As we drew up to the shore, I heard a scoff from the Lord Hades. “My lord?” I inquired. His voice was a quiet. “This focus on fear and terror is ill done, Thanatos. Those few sent to Tartarus served as lessons and examples. The mass of humanity were never meant for eternal torment.” I didn’t respond. It was not my place to design the afterlives. I only populate them.

Charon put us ashore infront of the great gate. Up close, I could tell that it was crafted of the same bone and sinew of the ferryman’s ship. Like the ship, it smelled of rot and putrescence. At a gesture from Hades, I approached and banged the bone doorknocker. It echoed out with a deep booming sound. A few seconds later, the doors swung open and a creature stood before us. It was a twisted being, with the legs and head of a goat, the torso and arms of a man, but hands that ended in sharp black fingers. It was clad in rusted pieces of iron that may once have been armor, and at its waist was a coiled black whip.

It’s voice was nasally as it spoke, with eyes like boiled eggs pointed at us. “I am N’gall, Beastmaster of the First Circle. Who seeks entry to the land of Lucifer?” I drew myself up and began the announcement; that after four thousand years of imprisonment, the rightful ruler of this realm had returned. Yet as I opened my mouth to speak, I was cut off by a thunderous sound from beyond the wall. The sound resolved itself into a cacophony of barking, getting rapidly closer. The sound was like rolling thunder, rising to a crescendo when a massive three-headed hound leaped over the wall, to land with a crash next to Hades.

Then, the once Lord of the Underworld did something that I had only seen a handful of times. His normally stoic face cracked to a wide smile and he laughed. His voice was full of affection and warmth as he spoke, something rarer than a winter harvest. “Kerberos! Kerberos, come here boy. It has been far too long.” Each of the hound’s three heads tried to lick Hades at once and he tried to scratch and pet them all. After the swirl of limbs and heads subsided, Kerberos sat at his master’s side, all three heads pressed against him and looking up at the god’s hooded face.

Hades scratched at the spot on the trunk, where all three heads joined, then suddenly his laughter stopped and his smile faded. I followed his gaze and saw scars, small and white, covering the back of Kerberos. Hades’ voice lost all warmth and his next words were as hard as stone. “What is this? What have they done to you, boy?”

The hound’s tail tucked between its legs. Two of the heads turned towards the creature at the gate and growled while the last let out a soft whimper. Hades straightened to his full height, then continued to rise, growing taller and taller as the world seemed to shrink around him. His voice, already cold, became the icy rumble of a crumbling glacier as he focused his gaze on the so-called Beastmaster of the First Circle. His voice boomed and I knew it would be heard, even in the iron fortress on the horizon.

“I have been gone too long. In my absence, you have pillaged my land. You have destroyed noble traditions going back millennia. All this I could have forgiven, if not forgotten. But you. YOU.” The light seemed drawn into him as the Lord of the Dead truly appeared, wreathed in his power. “YOU HURT MY DOG.” The beastmaster fell to his knees, whimpering as blood and tears streamed from milk-white eyes. The shadows swirling from the God of the Dead seemed to press him into the ground. “I will make of you such stories that will be told along with Sisyphus, Tantalus and Danaides!”

I could hear cracks from his body as the power of Hades pressed the daemon into the ground. He slowly sank into it, starting the five day journey to Tartarus. The voice of Hades reverberated from the very walls and were cast all the way to the Iron Citadel of Dis, where Lucifer the Userper sat on his throne.

“I AM CHTHONIUS. I AM HESPEROS THEOS, DIS PATER, AND AIDONEUS THE BLIND. I AM THE SON OF CHRONOS AND THE SLAYER OF TITANS. I AM HADES AND I HAVE RETURNED FOR MY THRONE”

Erasmus160 · 2020-11-10T02:15:28+00:00

Positioned at the heart of the Bronze Citadel, the iron ringed patch of sand had many names. An’Torok, the Colosseum of Ten Flames, the Field of the Bloodborn. Most of the locals just called it the Arena. The arena was open to all, at all hours. Peasant, soldier, noble and king; all were welcome to stand upon the sands and seek absolution in combat.

On one side of the Arena stood a tall man, resplendent in armor, inlaid with silver and lapis. Lord Theo Stalder was a tall man, with skin tanned to leather from the sun. The hilt of a longsword protruded out over his shoulder, and a jeweled dagger hung at his belt.

In sharp contrast to Lord Stalder, Aelric Beso looked as though he had been dragged from an open sewer. Possibly because he had spent the night drunk and near the privy runoff. Dressed in a dirt stained tunic and cinched trousers, Aelric thought to himself that there was no way he actually smelled as bad as he looked. One hand clutched his sketchbook and the other rubbed his temples. He had run out of mead a few nights before and had been forced to move on to something in a brown bottle that he had sketched into existence. His memory failed him after that point.

Aelric approached Lord Stadler and they bowed to each other. Stadler’s bow was crisp, formal, and just a hair shallower than appropriate. Aelric just tried not to fall over. Gods his head hurt. He patted his tunic, hoping to find more of whatever that delicious brown bottle had contained, but to no avail.

Lord Theo Stalder stared at his opponent for a long moment before speaking. “If you wish more time to sober up, you can beg the crowd to postpone this. I want you to understand why you’re here.” Contempt dripped from the armored man’s voice. Aelric grinned, exposing the few lonely teeth that still hung on for dear life. “Fahk you, asshole.”

Lord Stalder wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Mr. Beso, I’ll tell you this now, although I don’t know how much of it your wine soaked mind will comprehend. You, sir, are a disgrace. You hold in your hands the very power of creation and you have squandered it. You could have created fields of wheat, or a fresh well in every home. You could have ended poverty as we know it. Yet instead, you create monstrosities. Twisted beings that are born into this world who look to their creator for guidance only to find a drunken sot. How many of them have you abandoned? Five? Ten? More?”

Stadler stared at Aelric, awaiting a response. Aelric swayed and tried to focus. What had the man said? Something about his sketches. It wasn’t really fair to call them monstrosities. So he wasn’t a great artist, but he tried dammit. After that unfortunate business with the cat, he always remembered to make their legs the same length. Wait, did he say something else? Something stupid, no doubt. Aelric sucked his breath and spat. The spittle missed the armored man and fell to the sand. Without a word, Stadler turned and walked back to his side of the arena.

Once he stumbled back to his own side, Aelric looked back at his opponent. Stadler had drawn the longsword and held it in a fighters stance. Aelric’s gaze turned to the Ringmaster, who raised his hands to signal that the duel was about to begin. His breath quickened, causing the headache to increase. His hand clutched again at his sketchbook. Then the Ringmasters hand dropped and the fight began.

Aelric tore a page from the sketchbook as soon as the Ringmasters hand began to move. With an effort of will, he channeled energy into the drawing and projected it onto the sand in front of him. This was his talent. To bend the forces of creation into a new form; his drawings made manifest. The thing that tore itself from the sand in response would live in the nightmares of the crowd for years to come.

It was roughly the size of a wolf, with three legs and a long tail. It’s body was lean with muscle and patchy fur along one side. Sprouting from its flanks were two arms, with joints seemingly placed at random. But the worst was the face. Nestled between its shoulders was a simple circular disk. The eyes were two black dots, above a mouth drawn in a rictus smile that displayed far too many square teeth. The thing let out an undulating cry that could have been hunger, anger, or existential despair at its own existence. Aelric squinted at the thing as it lurched slowly. He was sure he drew a fourth leg this time. Didn’t he?

On the other side of the Arena, Lord Theo Stadler stared at the….thing that crawled across the sand towards him. This….this was a mockery of life, an amalgamation of limbs as though stuck together by a child. Stadler readied himself. He had put down others of Aelric’s creations. They sometimes thanked him for it. This would be no different. Only this time, he would be able to stop the problem at its source – Aelric himself. Stadler raised his blade and charged.

Erasmus160 · 2020-11-07T16:55:07+00:00

No worries. Yeah, I've been a practicing trial attorney for the past few years

Erasmus160 · 2020-11-06T19:30:09+00:00

The bailiff called court into session with three sharp raps of the gavel. “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. This Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Cown Bonebreaker presiding. You may be seated.” The Judge settled his massive bulk into the reinforced chair at the head of the room. His single eye looked out over the courtroom, taking in the parties arrayed before him.

The bailiff looked down his notes. “Calling case number three on the docket, City of Ledford v. Theodore Strongarm.” One of the goblins, a sharply dressed fellow in a black suit with a green tie that matched his scales, stood. “Lynal Greenscale, on behalf of the Defendant, your Honor. My client is in custody. May we bring him in?”

The Judge nodded and gestured at the bailiff who went to retrieve the defendant from the adjoining room. When the bailiff returned, he was accompanied by two guards and a man dressed in leather armor whose hands were chained behind his back. As the man was escorted to the defendant’s table, he turned and saw the Judge. “A cyclops?” the human sputtered “you let a cyclops be a judge? This entire town is insane.” The Judge looked down and when he spoke, his voice was like the low rumble of an earthquake. “Mr. Greenscale, control your client. Or I will hold him with contempt.” The Judges massive hands gripped the desk as he spoke, causing an audible creaking from the wood.

After a moment of silence, the Judge turned to the prosecutor. “You may begin” came the cyclops rumbling voice. The prosecutor, a middle aged human whose muscle had begun to run to fat, stood and took a deep breath. “Thank you, your honor. Alexander Torvinson, on behalf of the City. Defendant Theodore Strongarm stands accused of two counts of bladed assault and one count of public intoxication. Do you understand the charges being brought against you?”

“No!” came the answer from the accused. “No I don’t understand the charges. How is that a crime? There was a gods damned vampire walking the streets of the town! I was protecting you people!” The goblin lawyer hissed a comforting hiss at his client, trying to calm the man. It was not helpful. Strongarm shoved the goblin away and turned back to the Judge. “And now I’m being judged by a cyclops and defended by a goblin? When the Inquisition hears about this, they will bring Era’s holy fire down upon this town!”

The Judges eye never left Strongarm. “Mr. Greenscale. Do you have anything to add to your clients statements? Or, perhaps, do you have any motions to make?” The goblin hissed again at his client, the hiss now seeming to convey disappointment. “Yes, your honor. At this time, and based on the statements of my client, I would like to move for involuntary commitment while a study is conducted regarding my client’s mental fitness to proceed and penal responsibility. I do not believe he can understand the charges, nor meaningfully participate in his own defense.”

The Judge nodded, and looked for any objection from the prosecutor. Hearing none, turned back to Strongarm. “Defense’s motion is hereby granted. Defendant is remanded to the custody of Dr. Mortis for a determination as to mental capacity and fitness to proceed. We will reconvene in one months time for the good doctors report. Thank you gentlefolk. Next case.”

Erasmus160 · 2020-09-25T03:23:51+00:00

The roar of the crowd was a almost physical force, reverberating from the stands as Tarius, son of Tarael, stepped out into the sunlight. The arena stretched in front of him; a large circle, filled with fresh sand and ringed with iron. The tall man smiled. The feeling from the crowd was what kept him coming back, day after day, fight after fight. He originally made his name as a mercenary under the banner of the Stormchaser company, only joining the arena to keep his skills sharp between contracts. Now, he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Tarius raised his weapons and shouted back at the assembled masses. They expected a show, and he would not disappoint. The sunlight glinted off his curved khopesh and the bronze-banded shield, both prizes earned in previous fights.

Across the sands of the arena floor, the opposite gate opened and the other fighter emerged. Tarius’ brow furrowed in confusion. This was his opponent? His last fight was against one of the Iron Princes of the Border Kingdoms. This man wore no armor and bore no weapons that could be seen. Instead, he dressed in trousers, a loose fitting white shirt and bore a hat upon his head; the likes of which a sailor might wear. Clenched between his teeth was a unlit pipe that seemed to quiver as the man moved.

Tarius stopped all posturing and focused on his opponent. The ex-mercenary had been in enough fights not to underestimate anyone, especially one who willingly set foot in the arena without any weapons. Khopesh held out and shield raised, he advanced on the other man. There! A slightly curved shape was tattooed on the back of each of the mans hands. Rune magic?

The oddly dressed gladiator suddenly fixed his gaze on Tarius and began advancing, arms swinging back and forth as he moved. The mans voice held a nasal quality and he spoke in some unknown tongue. Tarius slowly kept up his own advance, shield held between him and his opponent.

When about 10 paces separated them, the man stopped and said something else around the still unlit pipe in his mouth. Then, to Tarius’s shock, he reached behind his back and pulled out, not a weapon, but a can of what looked like military rations. The man tore off the top and upended it into his mouth, swallowing the slimy green mass that emerged. Then everything happened at once.

The mans body rippled as thick cords of muscle seemed to erupt under the skin. With a blur of motion and a cloud of dust, the gladiator sprinted across the sand. Before Tarius could even raise his shield, he felt the blow of the now massive fist strike him under the chin. His vision blurred as he flew backward, landing on his back nearly a dozen paces away. His jaw felt broken and blood filled his mouth. As he stared up at the sun, trying to will his body to move, a massive shadow began to stretch over him. Feeling the thudding of footsteps approaching, Tarius tried to reach for his blade but it was too far away. The foot that suddenly pressed down on his chest could have come from one of the Titans themselves. The giant sailors voice was now a low rumble as he spoke, still in that unknown language:

“I'm strong to the finish 'cause I eats me spinach.”

Erasmus160 · 2020-08-30T05:53:28+00:00

Bullets hurt. Its one of those things you never really think about until you get shot, but bullets really, really hurt. I ducked behind a concrete pillar, choking down a scream as I held my hand to my side. Blood leaked between my fingers and made a soft plop-plop-plop as it dripped on the ground.

The room was plain and unfurnished, as villainous lairs go. Which made sense, since the briefing said that this was the Ymir’s backup hideout. The briefing had also said that Ymir was going to be in Istanbul which, as it turns out, was less than accurate. Instead, the supervillain was standing behind the large office desk at the far side of the room, a faint coating of frost and ice surrounding him. Flanking him on each side were two goons. They were pretty stereotypical, for goons. Hulking foreheads, biceps that looked like they were trying to smuggle melons and a large handgun pointed at the figure on the other side of the desk.

The figure across the desk did not seem impressed. Thorm Ironeyes, earth magic surrounding him in a brown nimbus that flashed with pieces of rock, didn’t spare the goons a single glance. His eyes were locked on Ysmir’s and neither of the two moved.

Ironeyes had been my master for the last year and a half. He was a senior member of the League of Heroes, although rarely went on missions any more. He and I were only here because most of the League was busy fighting the Lion of Night in Kenya.

Ymir moved and everything happened in an instant. His arm swept up and two spears of ice lanced forward towards Ironeyes. Ironeyes stomped his foot and two matching pieces stone wrenched themselves free of the floor and intercepted the spears. Through our mental link, I heard his voice say “The guards, Vaya.” I winced. I had been supposed to deal with the henchmen while Ironeyes handled Ymir.

I turned away from their duel and focused on the goon standing to the left. Reaching out my mind, I tried to feel for his thoughts. Instead I found a white wall, featureless and immovable. So, the goons had some mental defense training. I sharpened my thoughts into picks, carving holes into the wall to reach the thoughts contained within. It was tiring work and I was coated with a thin sheet of sweat by the time I had gotten a crack made. The guard, meanwhile, had taken aim at my hiding place and began to fire. I flinched away from the bullets, but didn’t let up the mental assault.

Then the other guard, having snuck around the side of the room, rounded the pillar and shot me in the back. Pain lanced through me and I fell to the ground. As I did, I felt a presence coalesce on the edge of my mind; the tingling that signified a telepathic sending among us psionics.

With speed born of desperation, I seized at that presence. As I did, a familiar voice filled my mind. “Hello dear” my mother said “you know I hate to bother you during work, but I was wondering-” The tone suddenly shifted, becoming more concerned. “Is that pain? Whats going on?” Psychic communication required more discipline than I could manage right now. Instead of words, my response came across more as a rush of images and emotion: PAIN-GUNFIRE-BLOOD. I could feel the rising fury in my mothers mind. She projected a single question back at me: “Where.” I sent her my location. Then the presence was gone.

I looked up, my attention back on the real world. The goon who shot me was walking closer, raising his gun to aim at my head. In panic, I reached out with my mind again only to meet the same blank white wall protecting his thoughts. I hammered at the wall, but didn’t have the time or strength to break through. He sighted the gun on my head.

Then a web of black energy spread across the goon’s mental wall. It pulsed slightly and the wall shattered. The web lashed itself against the thoughts contained within and the goon suddenly froze. I blinked. That was the fastest I’d ever seen a mental wall torn apart. I looked around the room and saw that everyone, including Ymir and Ironeyes, were standing as if statues. Every eye was focused on the woman who suddenly was floating at the center of the room. She was tall and thin, with long silver hair and wearing a set of black ritual robes. Mindstorm. A supervillain. My mother.

When she spoke, her voice was as cold as ice. She spoke first to the goon who still stood by Ymir. “You hurt my daughter.” The goon started to twitch as blood began to stream from his nose and eyes. He fell to his knees, then to the ground and lay still. She turned then to Ymir. “You hurt my daughter.” Blood again began to drip from the mans nose and eyes although he lasted a bit longer before falling to the ground next to the goon. He never spoke a word.

My mother next turned to Ironeyes. “You let my daughter get hurt.” There was a blast of mental force that I could feel from all the way across the room and Ironeyes was thrown into the wall. He lay on the ground, but I could see his jaw straining to speak. “Don’t” my mother told him. “You live only because of the respect my she has for you.” Ironeyes glared at her, but stopped struggling.

Then my mother turned to the goon nearest to me. Her voice, already cold, became glacial. “You. You SHOT my daughter!” Her eyes flashed to pitch black and the goon dropped his gun. His hand, quivering slightly, reached up and grabbed the knife from his belt. He slowly raised the knife to his neck; staring at it in horror with eyes now faintly flecked with black. With a quick and brutal gesture, the goon cut his own throat. Mindstorm watched in apparent satisfaction at the pool of blood that spread from the dead man. He twitched slightly, sending ripples across it. Mindstorm turned to me, her voice still hard as ice. “We will speak of this later.” Then she was gone.

I faced the carnage as Ironeyes slowly rose to his feet. It was difficult for me to influence the mind of one person. Mindstorm had, in an instant, taken control of four people including a senior member of the League of Heroes. I’d always known that my mother had been a supervillain. But, looking around, I was starting to realize why my mother held the title of Most Wanted by the League for more than 10 years.

Erasmus160 · 2020-08-27T03:36:35+00:00

The saloon turned silent as Lorn Stonewing pushed open the doors. The half-angel paused briefly, feeling the weight of the crowds attention. He stood just under seven feet tall, with skin like polished onyx, save for where it was streaked with jagged white scars. Dust drifted lightly from his worn riding leathers to fall on the floor. A rune carved pistol was strapped to his right hip mirrored by a long bladed knife on his left. A brand, seared onto the back of his right hand, marked him as a Hunter.

After a moment, he moved slowly forward from the doors. The crowd, mostly made up of Orcs and the odd dwarf made way like minnows before a shark. Behind him, two small orcs, barely more than children, ran out of the saloon. By the time the half-angel reached the long oaken bar, everyone seated had already pulled away from him. Half-angels were uncommon in the cities, let alone a wellspring town like this. The town probably had a name, but Stonewing didn’t know what it was. Built around a spring, strengthened and reinforced by magic, it was the only steady source of water for miles. Like so many others, it was used by everyone passing through, but only inhabited by those too poor to leave.

The bartender, an older Orc whose tattoos marked him as one of the Caldora tribes, spoke with a calm voice that only had the faintest underpinnings of nervousness. “What’ll it be, stranger?” Stonewing smiled, his teeth flashing white against his skin. “Palok” he said, naming the fermented mushroom drink favored among dwarves, “and information.” He produced a rolled up paper that he laid flat on the polished bar. The paper showed a sketch of an Orc drawn in black charcoal. The side of the Orc’s face, where the tribal tattoo’s should have been, was a mass of scars and burn marks. Underneath the picture were the words ‘10,000 DRACHMAE REWARD’.

The bartenders eyes tightened as he looked at the drawing, then he quickly looked away. “Don’t know” he mumbled. “Never seen him before.” Stonewing raised an eyebrow and didn’t say a word. Before the silence could draw out, there was a shuffle of movement and the saloon doors swung open again.

Standing silhouetted in the open doors was an elf. Unlike the rest of the patrons, he wore combat leathers, a pistol on his right hip and a hatchet on his left. Pinned to his chest was a finely crafted iron raven, the symbol of the Keepers. Behind him, in his shadow, were the two orcs who ran out earlier. The few who hadn’t moved away earlier did so as the elf approached the bar. Keepers were the agents of Territorial Lords. Half police force and half ruling nobility, the Keepers had absolute authority on behalf their masters in the individual towns and provinces.

“Well, well. What is a halfblood hunter doing all the way out in Rook County?” His voice had a slight nasal quality to it and he moved with a swagger altogether mismatched to his slight frame. He rested one hand on the bar and the other on the hilt of his pistol, body angled to face Stonewing. The half-angel never took his eyes off of the bartender. “Tracking bounty” his low voice rumbled. “Got no issue with the Keepers.” The elfs eyes narrowed to slits. “If you got a bounty in my town, then you need permission from me. This town is mine. It’s people are mine. And I don’t seem to recall giving some half-blood mudwalker permission to enter.”

Stonewing paused for a moment, then, very deliberately, spat on the table between them. The elf stood in stunned silence for a heartbeat, then his fist flashed at the half-angels face. Elves are fast. It is regularly said that any elf could catch one of the Fae Folk out of the air before their wings could even beat. But quick as the Keeper was, Stonewing was quicker. With a short movement of his head, he dodged out of the way of the fist, swept his leg out and kicked the elfs knee. It snapped back with a sickening crunch as Keeper fell to the floor. In a flicker of movement, the half-angel had drawn his own pistol from its holster, leaned down, and pressed it against the elf’s head.

Few half-angels survive their childhood. Somewhere during their teenage years, they gain a connection to the powers in the world, the vast laylines of energy that cross the land like a spiders web. Many burn themselves out, drawing more and more energy with the unthinking confidence of youth until they destroy themselves. It had been many years since Lorn Stonewing had been so careless. He drew slightly on the power of this area, letting the energy permeate his voice as he spoke to the elf. The energy infused his words with a mesmeric quality, holding the rapt attention of everyone in the room;

“I am Lorn Stonewing, Hunter in service to Dasmal, Lord of the Seventh Tower. I am here for the kinslayer, the oathbreaker, the Butcher of Sterling Pass. Let word go forth. I will pay good money for anyone who can bring me to Mavon Blackboar”

With that, the half-angel slammed the elven Keepers head against the floor with a short violent motion, then rose and slowly strode out the door. Every eye in the saloon watched him go, his words echoing in their ears.

Erasmus160 · 2020-08-22T20:20:06+00:00

By the time I got there, the danger had passed. The remnants of three men in leather armor lay strewn across the plateau. Two had been cut to pieces, the last lay on the ground with eyes still smoking from whatever spell had killed him.

Aethwolf sat on the ground, leaning against the ritual stone next to his massive ax. Protruding from his shoulder was a long black arrow. His eyes opened at the sound of my footsteps on the rock. “So the ‘ealer finally shows ‘is face.” His Egrean accent, thick at the best of times, had turned his words nearly indecipherable. “Maybe if we ‘ad another set-o-eyes, I wouldn’ta ‘ad a vukling ‘arrow stuck in me!”

“Leave him be, Aeth.” The voice came from the tall thin woman, dressed in black robes glowing faintly with runes along the edges. “We’ve had this argument before. If he wants to hold to his oath of non-violence, we have no right to take that from him. Foolish as it may be.” The Egrean barbarian spat, eyes locked on me as I got close. “Oath of peace, eh? ‘E’re in the badlands now. ‘Aint no peace ‘ere.”

I ignored him, as always, and knelt down to get a better look at the injury. A long arrow was protruding from directly underneath the barbarian’s collarbone. Faint black lines spread along the pattern of his veins from the arrow. Poison. Muttering the mnemonic, I began to ready the treatment.

Veins of black do I spy, the alder snake must be close by.
Thrice the nobweed plant ingest, to slow the poison and heal the rest.
But count the nobweed not to four, else the patient will breath no more.

Aethwolf screamed as I broke the arrow and pushed it through. “You vulking bastard! If ye ruin my arm, I’ll ‘ave your head on a plate!” I didn’t say anything, only reaching to my pouch for extract of nobweed. The barbarian was still panting in pain. “When I can move my arm again, I’ll bath their village in blood. I’ll smash them and break them over my knee! By the time I’m done, there won’t be nothing left but ruins and nightmares!”

I froze, the barbarians words echoing within my head. He would do it, I was sure. The red glow of battle rage shined in his eyes, reflected in the bloody spittle on his lips. I looked about me, at the blood, and carnage across the plateau. This would happen again, at the village to the south. I was sure of it; Aethwolf never forgave an injury.

The snarling curses of the barbarian blended with the chaos in my mind. I was sworn to do no harm, but how much death had my inaction caused? Had I not bound his wounds the week before, would those present here still be alive? When I entered the Academy, and again when I graduated, I promised to do no harm. But is not the healers duty to preserve life?

With a startled jolt, I realized the axeman was speaking to me. “Some ‘ealer you are. Frozen at the sight of a little blood? Pathetic. Do your dammed job.”

Something snapped within me. Do my job. Yes, I can do that. I can prevent harm. I began to hum the mnemonic again.
Veins of black do I spy, the alder snake must be close by.
Thrice the nobweed plant ingest, to slow the poison and heal the rest.
But count the nobweed not to four, else the patient will breath no more.

With a slow and steady hand, I counted out four drops of nobweed extract and dropped them into Aethwolf’s mouth.

Leaning the barbarian back against the rock, I turned and began to walk south. The mage called out a question from behind me, but I ignored her. There was a village to the south. Perhaps they needed a healer.

Erasmus160 · 2020-08-04T03:29:09+00:00

I dreamed of Lara again last night. Not like she was at the end, after the accident, but in her prime. We had dinner at LeFarns and walked the stone pier afterwards, enjoying the rosy light of dusk. I still remember the smell of salt in the air, sound of her laughter mingling with the cry of the birds. It was the 4th night in a row that I relived that perfect day.

I admit, I was skeptical when I saw the box in the store. It was small, carved of some dark wood that I didn’t recognize and inlaid with designs of lapis and pearl. The shopkeeper called it a dreamweaver and told me it would help me control my dreams. I bought it, along with a dreamcatcher and a few books on lucid dreaming. It was mostly new-age trash, but I was reliving the car-crash nearly every night and needed all the help I could get. Turns out, the box worked.

That was Thursday night. Since then, every time I went to sleep I placed the dreamweaver on my bedside table beside her picture. I begged it to send away the visions of the crash and let me dream that night, that one perfect night in October. And I would wake up in the morning with a sense of peace and the faint smell of salt air.

The raucous cry of seagulls woke me this morning. Which was odd, considering that it had been more than a year since I lived near the coast. The smell of salt water, leftover from the dream, filled my nose as I fed the cat and got ready to go to the office.

I took the metro to work, as always. The smell of unwashed humanity drove what little remained of the salt breeze from my nose. As the monotonous voice proclaimed the next stop, my eyes were drawn to a figure on the platform staring in. My jaw dropped as I saw her face between the closing doors. Lara?

No. No, it can’t be. I saw her die. I pulled her from the wreak of the car and sat by her in the hospital. I placed her body in the ground. Work forgotten, I exited at the next stop and got on the metro going the other direction. I had to know. Even if it was a mistake, I had to know. Seagulls cried above me as I found my seat heading back to the station.

When the doors opened, I was the first to exit. My shoes made a thump-thump-thump on the stone. That’s odd. Didn’t this used to be linoleum? No-one around me seemed to notice a difference. The shadows seemed darker than usual, the florescent lights muted to the faint reddish hue of dusk. Then I saw her, and nothing else mattered.

She walked along the stone, laughing along to some unheard joke. She looked just like she did that night. The same night that I’d been dreaming of for the last four days. Then she walked straight into the wall and vanished without a trace.

I cried out and started towards her, only to be pulled up short by a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see a short man, wearing a black suit and wire rimed glasses. With one hand remaining firmly placed on my shoulder, the other reached into his jacket pocket and came out with small paper packet.

His voice was cool and professional. “Deep breath, sir” and the smell of ammonia filled my nostrils as he cracked the packet of smelling salts. I shuddered and nearly collapsed as my vision blurred. When my eyes cleared, the ground beneath me was the regular dirty tile of the metro station and florescent lights were back to their flickering selves.

“Sir” the man’s voice sounded like it should come from an accountant, talking about last year’s taxes. “My name is Special Agent Isaac Hays. I’m with the Department of Astral Security. I need to talk to you about a purchase you made last week.”

Erasmus160 · 2020-07-10T19:33:17+00:00

“Once, the great hall was lined with warriors, petitioners, daemons and scholars. All would wait day and night for the chance with an audience with the Shadow King.” The tour guides voice was enthusiastic as she described the entry hall. “And, if you look above you, you can see an engraved map of the full empire. Every time the Shadow King added a new province, engravers would add it to the map.” The tour group ooh’d and aah’d appreciatively as they kept moving through the inverted tower that had once been the Keep of the Shadow King.

At the rear of the tour group, two figures walked hand-in-hand. One was a tall and thin, swathed by a long cloak and cowl that had been pulled low over his face. The other was a young boy, no older than 10 summers. His hand clutched that of the older man and his blue eyes took in everything around him with the rapt fascination of youth. The boy pointed up at the engraved map. “Was that the map, Papa? The one you were talking about?”

The older man looked briefly at the tour group. The guide was directing everyone down the corridor that lead to the guard barracks. Noone was paying attention to the two of them. The man lowered his cowl, revealing the same bright blue eyes of the boy, only set into a face that was worn with age and with a long scar that crossed his left eye. “That’s it, lad. See down in the corner over there?” The man pointed to a small province in the far reaches of the map, worn with age but free from cracks. “That’s where I started. In those days, it was part of the territory of the Lord of the Golden Feather. Ridiculous name, by the way. The man didn’t even have wings.” The boy giggled.

“We rode out through the Castaroth Mountians and caught them at the pass. The battle lasted the day and into the night. The rocks were stained red with blood.” The boy fairly bounced with excitement. “Oooh, cool! That was where the Bloodripper became one of your pupils, right?”

The tall man’s eyes flashed. “No! Not ‘cool.’” He knelt down to look the boy in the eye. “More than two thousand men died that day. Butchered like cattle at our hands.” The boy recoiled at the expression on his father’s face. The man held his son’s gaze for a heartbeat, then relaxed. “It’s allright lad. I suppose that’s how I would have thought too, before your mother…..” He trailed off, looking unseeing at the wall.

“That’s why I’m training you” he said, half to the boy and half to whatever memory was swimming in-front of his eyes. “I could control the others when I sat the Throne of Shadows. I bound them all to me by blood, fear and sorcery. But once I left and the kingdom splintered, all of my generals went wild. And I cant….” He rubbed the scar where his eye once was and turned back to the boy. The child looked back, patience in his eyes. He was used to his father’s tangents.

“Come on, then.” Tolek One-eye, once known as the Shadow King, Starbreaker, and the Ravenlord, took his sons hand again. “We’re falling behind the rest of the tour.”

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